you've finished peeling the sweet potatoes, and your hands are not made ochre, but i think of them as such, like everything you touch turns melted crayola stamp sticky in a hot car, the ruddy thigh stuck by its own blue sweat, pressed with grass and itching to drip, mint chocolate chip curling down your fingers that are not so much clutching the peeler as they are... allowing the soft skin to be zested... off of orange leather... for you see that your hands held no sign of morning-glory excess— only the red trail dripping from your thumb i had failed to see: you’ve nicked yourself, my love.
Oh, My Word! Thanks for reading my poem! Leave a comment below!
Oh, My Word! is a weekly updated blog featuring fiction, poetry, drama, and essays for the world. #OhMyWordWednesday
Hit “Like” if you enjoyed the post and support the blog by hitting “Subscribe!”